


Research Methods

by Mina Lightstar (ukefied)



Category: Stark Raving Mad
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-21
Updated: 2011-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-26 08:50:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ukefied/pseuds/Mina%20Lightstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian has an ... interesting way of researching for his new novel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Research Methods

**Author's Note:**

> This is a NaNoWriMo fic. Given the nature of the environment in which it was written, please to be forgiving if it's a little rough around the edges.

It’s quiet when Henry enters Ian’s apartment, which is always a bad sign. Ian has his own eccentric method of composing his novels: he narrates into a recorder, has Jake type the rough draft, and Henry takes it from there. The loft appears deserted, though; maybe Ian is taking a nap? Henry didn’t see him down at the bar with Maddie.

“Hello?” he calls out, fully aware that this may open him up for whatever scheme Ian has up his sleeve. Working with the bestselling thriller author has damn near made him manic.

Ian picks that moment to come in through the back entrance. He’s holding a cup of coffee and a power bar. “Oh, hey, Henry,” he greets, looking a little … off.

Henry can’t quite put his finger on it, but Ian definitely looks a little out-of-sorts. “Hi. Did you manage to get any writing done today?”

Ian visibly tenses. “N-no. I’ve been kind of distracted,” he explains, setting his travel-mug and energy bar down on the kitchen’s island. He braces both hands on the counter and sighs.

“Oh?” Henry sets his briefcase down on the coffee table and goes over to lean on the counter.

“What’s up? Did something happen?”

Ian avoids looking into his eyes, staring at the floor as though it had wronged him somehow. “Look, Henry, something’s really been getting to me lately, and if I don’t say something, it’s just going to eat away at me.”

Henry blinks, wondering what could have gotten to Ian so suddenly. He’d been writing up a storm, more or less, for the past couple of weeks. “Well, what’s wrong?”

“It’s you.” The words drop like stones from Ian’s lips — cold, unfeeling stones.

Henry is taken aback, visibly flinching at the accusation. “M-me? What did I do?”

“That’s exactly it,” Ian says, waving his hand in frustration. “You always waltz in here, all innocent and gullible and easy-to-please, can you blame me?”

This doesn’t make any sense; why is this a topic, all of a sudden? Henry thought they had moved past this point in their professional relationship. Hell, Ian had proclaimed more than once that he _liked_ having Henry around to torture. “I don’t … understand,” he admits. “I-I thought—”

“Yeah, I ‘thought,’ too,” Ian snaps, “but I can’t do this anymore. The distraction is too much; instead of thinking about how to grisly murder someone with dental floss, I spend all my time thinking about _you_ , and that’s not…” he trails off, putting his hands on his hips and muttering something nasty.

Henry bites down the urge to fling some of this back in Ian’s face. He’s been an editor for over five years now, and he knows how authors can get when things aren’t going their way. Ian is especially eccentric — he knew that going into this job, it’s why so many of Ian’s editors had quit in the first place. So he takes a deep breath and ties to find a solution. “Okay, Ian, why don’t you tell me exactly what’s bothering you, and we can work together to find a solution?”

Ian jumps, startled out of whatever tantrum Henry just interrupted. The thriller author paces about for a second, clearly skittish and uncertain — qualities Henry never would have attributed to Ian Stark — before coming around to stand in front of him. “All right, you want to know what’s bothering me?”

Henry shrinks away a bit, trying to put a little space between them, but Ian is having none of it. For every millimeter Henry retreats, Ian closes in, intense gaze boring into Henry’s. “W-what?”

He thinks Ian is going to hit him, and flinches accordingly. His heart leaps into his throat when Ian doesn’t, instead framing Henry’s face with his hands and holding him immobile. He doesn’t get a another word in before Ian kisses him full on the lips. Henry freezes up, unsure of the line between “polite refusal” and “offensive freak-out.” So they remain this way, like stone statues someone pushed together, until Ian finally bursts out laughing. The author stumbles away from him, doubled-over — sniggering as though there was a whole new hilarious dimension to this prank only he understood. That was probably true, Henry figures with a sigh. He shoves his hands in his pockets and leans back against the island, suffering Ian’s mockery for the umpteenth time.

“Man!” he crows amidst the chuckling. “You should have seen your face! Priceless!”

“I’m sure,” Henry replies wryly. “I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

This brings Ian up short; his laughter ceases and he taps his lips, thoughtful. “No, actually. No, I’m not. Hmm.”

“Huh?”

“This was research,” Ian explains, making grandiose gestures. “I’m thinking of including a gay couple in the new book. It’s going to start out full of sweet promises, and then end in horrific tragedy.”

“… How romantic.”

Ian waves a hand. “No, see, it will be genius. I’m thinking of having one of the men specifically get close to the other to eventually kill him. Anyway, one of the men isn’t sure if he’s gay or just attracted to this one guy, so the murderer moves in on him, slowly breaking him down because he’s a sick bastard.”

Henry raises an eyebrow. “He certainly is.”

“Thing is, I don’t know much about being gay. So I’ve decided to experiment a little. Get a feel for things, you know?” Ian smirks at him. “And as my editor, you get to help.”

Henry shifts, uncomfortable. “Can’t Jake do this?”

Ian shakes his head vigorously. “No, no, no. Jake’s too easygoing, he’d jump right into the scenario. It wouldn’t be authentic enough.” As an afterthought, “And we live together. Things would get weird.”

Henry concedes that this may be true. “But I don’t know, Ian. Just your regular pranks have taken twenty years off my life. I’m not sure I could handle being seduced and then strangled.”

“It’s for the writing process,” Ian argues. “You’re the only one I can count on.”

Henry knows he’s going to regret this, but he says it anyway. “Fine.”

***

Even knowing the nature of the exercise, even knowing it was _coming,_ Ian always seems to catch Henry off-guard. Once he was sitting on Ian’s couch, going over the pages from the latest chapter, when something hot, furry, and slimy touched his ear.

“YAAAUUGHH!”

He leaps to his feet, spins around, clutching his ear. Ian is standing behind the couch, shaking his head and looking somewhere between bemused and exasperated.

“I was looking for a more subdued reaction,” he says.

Henry just stares at him, dumbfounded.

“I mean,” Ian goes on, “screaming like a woman in a horror film isn’t exactly how I’d like the person I’m trying to seduce to react.”

Henry rubs the spittle off his ear with his sleeve. “Ian,” he lectures in a clipped tone, fumbling for his Purell, “what that was, right there, that was not seduction. That was a creepy, unsolicited advance. It would have gotten you maced. Or a kick in the groin.”  
Ian winces. “But I’ve been seducing you all afternoon.”

“No, you haven’t.” Henry makes a face. “You mean you want to skip ahead?”

“Well, yeah. I hate role-playing; it’s stupid.”

Henry rubs at his face. “But role-playing is exactly what — ugh, you know what? Forget it. Okay, sit down.” He waits until both of them are seated back on the couch, then explains. “If you really want to make this storyline happen, and you really want to document genuine reactions, then make me believe it.”

Ian already looks uncomfortable. “Jeez, really?”

“Say something romantic. Come on to me.” Henry twists so he’s facing Ian, hands folded neatly in his lap while he waits.

“You’re kidding?” Ian evades. “I can’t do that. I hate feelings — and most people.”

Henry rolls his eyes. “You can lick my ear while I’m not looking, but you can’t manage to feed me a line?”

Ian makes a face.

“Hey, lots of writers are like that,” Henry tries to reassure him. “They can spin the tale on the page, but they can’t articulate how they’re feeling. But you’re the one who asked me to help, remember? So…?”

Ian fumbles for a while, shifting around on the couch and looking everywhere but at Henry. Henry, for his part, tries to give Ian some time to decide what he’s going to do, and pointedly doesn’t make eye contact. He stares at his hands, instead, arranged perfectly on his knee. _Huh. Manicure’s due._

Finally, Ian manages to mutter, “You’re a … a good editor.”

Henry looks up. “There, that—!” Ian interrupts by leaping across the couch, one hand cupping Henry’s cheek and the other grabbing hold of his shoulder.

The kiss is even more surprising than the tongue in his ear had been. It lasts longer, too; Henry’s mouth is agape from shock, and Ian uses his tongue. Henry’s eyes widen, round as saucers, but Ian’s are squeezed shut — out of shyness, or the urge to distance himself from what’s happening, either is possible. After the first few seconds, though, they find a rhythm — the smacking of their lips sounding very loud in the quiet apartment. Henry’s eyelids flutter shut as Ian’s thumb brushes his cheekbone; he’s an unexpectedly good kisser. Henry wouldn’t have figured, given his reticence and general disinterest in relationships. It would be easy to become lost in this kiss — were it not for the whiskers.

Henry pulls back. “Well,” he says, breathless, “that seemed to work.”

Ian doesn’t answer. The author leaps from the couch and heads for his room.

“Ian!” Henry calls.

“Gotta get this down!” Ian shouts back.

***

“It’s really coming along,” Ian is telling him. “I want to really bring the readers into this love story, and then shatter all their hopes and dreams.”

Henry blinks at him. “Is this book going to have any sort of happy ending?”

“Well, yeah, eventually. Not for these two, though.” Ian plays with the recorder in his hand. “These two are my gut-wrenchers.”

“And what we’re doing,” Henry ventures, “it’s actually helping?” He sets his laptop on the coffee table and leans against the sofa cushions, resting his back. “Because Tess is understandably uncomfortable with the whole thing.”

Ian snorts. “What is she, homophobic?”

“Monogamous,” Henry clarifies.

“Well, either way, it only means something if we let it. So let’s _not._ ” When Henry raises his hands, placating, Ian nods. “Why’d you tell Tess, anyway?”

Henry shrugs. “I tell her everything. And what if she happened to be looking for me while you were sticking your tongue in my ear? Just about anyone can walk right into your loft.”  
Ian waves him off. “Eh, whatever. So long as she keeps it quiet. I have enough trouble quelling rumors about affairs I’m supposedly having.”

“No, you don’t,” Henry says, perplexed.

“This is good,” Ian declares. “We’re sitting here, having an actual conversation while being totally comfortable with each other. The walls are down, we’re starting to open up, just need a good excuse to get close.”

“Audrey wanted me to let you know that she expects you at her spring solstice party,” Henry changes the subject. “It’s—”

“Shutting you up is good enough,” Ian decides, crawling over.

It’s not exactly _good_ yet, but kissing Ian has become pleasant enough, for lack of a better word. There is still an undercurrent of creepiness to the whole thing; Ian is essentially role-playing a serial killer who seduces his victims and then murders them. Henry is the current victim, trapped in his role in the story as surely as he is trapped beneath Ian now.

He’s getting used to the mustache, though. And Ian has relaxed some, applying a little more finesse into his kisses. Henry even catches himself mewling a little and curses inwardly, expecting an insult and insinuation about his sexuality — but Ian only kisses him more slowly, deeply.  
The door to the loft slides open, rickety and loud and shattering the moment.

“Whoa, dudes,” Jake apologizes, closing the door behind him and going out of his way not to stare at them. “I’m real sorry to interrupt.”

“You aren’t interrupting anything,” Henry assures him, although he can tell that from Jake’s point-of-view, that is a blatant lie.

“I’m just going to go to my room and shut the door, and put my headphones on.” As he talks, Jake moves through the loft, one hand shielding the side of his face. “I’m real happy for you two, but dudes, you gotta put, like, a sock on the doorknob or something. Otherwise, it might’ve been real embarrassing for you.”

“Jake,” Ian sighs.

“It’s all good, I love both of you. Have at it, see ya later.”

Henry tries craning his neck to follow Jake’s exit, but he’s too deep in the cushions. He figures that’s enough “research” for now, but before he can move, Ian’s lips fall upon his neck and he almost — almost — forgets that they aren’t really making out.

***

“Tiffany’s boyfriend Jim used to ‘experiment,’” Tess frets one evening. “And the tests were conclusive!”

Henry grabs one of her waving arms by the wrist and pulls her down to the couch. “Let’s leave Jim and Dylan out of this, okay? That’s not what’s going on here.”

“Isn’t it?” Tess gives him a devastated look. “The only difference is I _know_ what’s going on with you and Ian—”

“There is _nothing going on_ with Ian and I!”

“Are you serious? Are you _serious?_ ” Tess points a shaking finger at his nose. “We have a vernissage tonight and you have a hickey. A _hickey,_ Henry! Who even _does that_ , anymore?” Her eyes begin to wobble. “I have to use my Estee Lauder foundation to cover up my boyfriend’s hickey.”

Henry holds up his hands in surrender. “Okay, look — first of all, it wasn’t a pleasant hickey, trust me. It was kind of gross, actually. Ian isn’t sexy or romantic, and that awful mustache just has to go.” Tess raises an eyebrow at him. “Secondly, we don’t even know how it happened. It’s not like we were necking, or anything. I think Ian’s just a lousy lover and has no idea you aren’t supposed to suck on someone’s neck that hard.”

“Oh, Henry,” Tess chokes out, and drops her face into her hands.

“Aw, c’mere, pumpkin.” Henry leans over and kisses the top of her head. “I promise you’re making this out to be more than what it is. You know Ian doesn’t do well with relationships, right?”

“Yes,” Tess admits from behind her hands.

“So there’s no need to worry; nothing questionable is going on, okay?” He waits for her to nod, then starts unbuttoning his shirt. “Now can you please cover up this love-bite?”

***

The following Sunday, Henry is waiting at the coffee machine, watching it drip. At the kitchen table sits his laptop and a pile of manuscript pages he intends to get through. He’ll also be on hand to help Ian with whatever he needs.

He’s only half-surprised when Ian turns him around and kisses him, pressing him back against the counter. He lets it happen, trying to imagine himself as Tom, Ian’s character. Tom, who for nearly two weeks has been courted and kissed by Aaron — who trusted Aaron now.

Ian pulls away, just enough to look into Henry’s eyes. “I want to fuck you.”

There is suddenly a huge lump in his throat. Henry swallows it. “Where?”

“In the ass,” Ian deadpans. “Idiot.”

Henry shoves Ian away, annoyed. “First of all, I meant _which room_ —”

“Sure you did.”

“—Second of all, _no._ ” The coffee machine beeps; Henry pours himself a cup. “How’s that  
for an answer?”

“Good enough,” Ian yawns. “I’ve got everything I need, from reactions to kissing technique. This is gonna be heartrending.”

“I certainly hope so.”

***

It’s more than heartrending, he discovers upon the read-through. His heart shatters with Tom’s, into a million tiny pieces. He feels the betrayal, the fear, and the helplessness. He lets Tess have a sneak-peek, and later has to hold her as she sniffles, a little teary-eyed for the doomed couple.

“Aaron is such a barbarian,” she sobs.

“There will be a happy ending,” Henry promises her.

“Not for Tom, though.”

“No,” Henry hugs her tighter, “not for Tom.”

After a few moments, she sits up straight. “So that’s what you were working on with Ian? To help him get inside Tom and Aaron’s heads?”

“Uh-huh.”

Tess considers it, then nods. “If this is what that produces, you can do it again sometime.”

Henry grins at her, and gives her a kiss.


End file.
